wanted-what did she want?
She thought about the conversation she had had with Hercule Poirot, the warning he had given her. Ridiculous! After all, why shouldn't she participate in this problem which she was sharing with Poirot?
Poirot might choose to sit in a chair, put the tips of his fingers together, and set his grey cells whirring to work while his body reclined comfortably within four walls.
That was not the procedure that appealed to Ariadne Oliver. She had said, very forcibly, that she at least was going to do something. She was going to find out more about this mysterious girl. Where was Norma Restarick? What was she doing?
What more could she, Ariadne Oliver, find out about her?
Mrs. Oliver prowled about, more and more disconsolate. What could one do? It wasn't very easy to decide. Go somewhere and ask questions? Should she go down to Long Basing? But Poirot had already been there-and found out presumably what there was to be found out. What excuse could she offer for barging into Sir Roderick Horsefield's house?
She considered another visit to Borodene Mansions. Something still to be found out there, perhaps? She would have to think of another excuse for going there. She wasn't quite sure what excuse she would use but anyway, that seemed the only possible place where more information could be obtained. What was the time?
Ten a.m. There were certain possibilities.
On the way there she concocted an excuse. Not a very original excuse. In fact, Mrs. Oliver would have liked to have found something more intriguing, but perhaps, she reflected prudently, it was just as well to keep to something completely everyday and plausible. She arrived at the stately if grim elevation ofBorodene Mansions and walked slowly round the courtyard considering it.
A porter was conversing with a furniture van - A milkman, pushing his milk-float, joined Mrs. Oliver near the service lift.
He rattled bottles, cheerfully whistling, whilst Mrs. Oliver continued to stare abstractedly at the furniture van.
'Number 76 moving out,' explained the milkman to Mrs. Oliver, mistaking her interest. He transferred a clutch of bottles from his float to the lift.
'Not that she hasn't moved already in a manner of speaking,' he added, emerging again. He seemed a cheery kind of milkman.
He pointed a thumb upwards.
'Pitched herself out of a window - seventh floor - only a week ago, it was.
Five o'clock in the morning. Funny time to choose.' Mrs. Oliver didn't think it so funny.
'Why?'
'Why did she do it? Nobody knows.
Balance of mind disturbed, they said.'
'Was she - young?'
'Nah! Just an old trout. Fifty if she was a day.' Two men struggled in the van with a chest of drawers. It resisted them and two mahogany drawers crashed to the ground - a loose piece of paper floated toward Mrs. Oliver who caught it.
'Don't smash everything, Charlie,' said the cheerful milkman reprovingly, and went up in the lift with his cargo of bottles.
An altercation broke out between the furniture movers. Mrs. Oliver offered them the piece of paper, but they waved it away.
Making up her mind, Mrs. Oliver entered the building and went up to No. 67. A clank came from inside and presently the door was opened by a middleaged woman with a mop who was clearly engaged in household labours.
'Oh,' said Mrs. Oliver, using her favourite monosyllable. 'Good-morning.
Is - I wonder - is anyone in?'
'No, I'm afraid not, Madam. They're all out. They've gone to work.'
'Yes, of course… As a matter of fact when I was here last I left a little diary behind. So annoying. It must be in the sitting-room somewhere.'
'Well, I haven't picked up anything of the kind. Madam, as far as I know. Of course I mightn't have known it was yours.
Would you like to come in?' She opened the door hospitably, set aside the mop with which she had been treating the kitchen floor, and accompanied Mrs. Oliver into the sitting-room.
'Yes,' said Mrs. Oliver, determined to establish friendly relations, 'yes, I see here - that's the book I left for Miss Restarick, Miss Norma. Is she back from the country yet?'
'I don't think she's living here at the moment.
Her bed wasn't slept in. Perhaps she's still down with her people in the country.
I know she was going there last weekend.'
'Yes, I expect that's it,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'This was a book I brought her.
One of my books.' One of Mrs. Oliver's books did not seem to strike any chord of interest in the cleaning woman.
'I was sitting here,' went on Mrs. Oliver, patting an armchair, 'at least I think so. And then I moved to the window and perhaps to the sofa.' She dug down vehemently behind the cushions of the chair. The cleaning woman obliged by doing the same thing to the sofa cushions.
'You've no idea how maddening it is when one loses something like that,' went on Mrs. Oliver, chattily. 'One has all one's engagements written down there. I'm quite sure I'm lunching with someone very important today, and I can't remember who it was or where the luncheon was to be.
Only, of course, it may be tomorrow. If so, I'm lunching with someone else quite different. Oh dear.'
'Very trying for you, ma'am, I'm sure,' said the cleaning woman with sympathy.
'They're such nice flats, these,' said Mrs. Oliver, looking round.
'A long way up.'
'Well, that gives you a very good view, doesn't it?'
'Yes, but if they face east you get a lot of cold wind in winter. Comes right through these metal window frames. Some people have had double windows put in.
Oh yes, I wouldn't care for a flat facing this way in winter. No, give me a nice ground floor flat every time. Much more convenient too if you've got children. For prams and all that, you know. Oh yes, I'm all for the ground floor, I am. Think if there was to be a fire.'
'Yes, of course, that would be terrible,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'I suppose there are fire escapes?'
'You can't always get to a fire door.
Terrified of fire, I am. Always have been.
And they're ever so expensive, these flats.
You wouldn't believe the rents they ask!
That's why Miss Holland gets two other girls to go in with her.'
'Oh yes, I think I met them both. Miss Gary's an artist, isn't she?'
'Works for an art gallery, she does.
Don't work at it very hard, though. She paints a bit - cows and trees that you'd never recognise as being what they're meant to be. An untidy young lady. The state her room is in-you wouldn't believe it! Now Miss Holland, everything is always as neat as a new pin. She was a secretary in the Coal Board at one time but she's a private secretary in the City now.
She likes it better, she says. She's secretary to a very rich gentleman just come back from South America or somewhere like that. He's Miss Norma's father, and it was he who asked Miss Holland to take her as a boarder when the last young lady went off to get married - and she mentioned as she was looking for another girl. Well, she couldn't very well refuse, could she? Not since he was her employer.'
'Did she want to refuse?' The woman sniffed.
'I think she would have-if she'd known.'
'Known what?' The question was too direct.
'It's not for me to say anything, I'm sure. It's not my business - ' Mrs. Oliver continued to look mildly enquiring.
